CHAPTER XVIII.

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

The next day at breakfast Mrs. Burton announced her intention of going to see Mrs. Alroy instead of attending church, and said that if she were not home to dinner they might know she had thought it necessary to remain.

"Mayn't I go with you, mamma?" asked Winnifred.

"I think it would not be best for either Ernestine or yourself, Winnie, and certainly not for Mrs. Alroy."

Winnie at once saw that her mother was right, and instead of demurring, she went and gathered some beautiful clusters of lilacs for Ernestine, and cut the one white rose in bloom on her window-sill to send to Mrs. Alroy.

Mrs. Burton set off, taking a basket of fruit and the flowers, but she sighed as she turned the corner leading to Mrs. Alroy's, for she felt that the fruit would never refresh the world-weary woman for whom it was intended.

When she reached her destination she glanced apprehensively up to the second-story windows, for, although she said nothing about it to Winnie, she had on the previous day given up all hope of Mrs. Alroy's recovery. But the sorrowful banner which she had dreaded to see was not there, and she breathed more freely as she passed up the stairs.

In answer to her low knock the door was opened by Ernestine, who smiled as Mrs. Burton took her hand, a sad little smile of welcome which went to her visitor's heart.

"Mamma is resting quite easily now, but she passed a painful night. I will tell the nurse you are here. How beautiful the flowers and fruit are!" she said, as Mrs. Burton handed the basket to her.

"Yes, dear; the lilacs are for you--you know their odor is too strong for a sick-room--but Winnie sent this rose from her own little monthly to your mother."

Ernestine's lips quivered, as she took the rose without speaking, and went into the little bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.

Mrs. Burton found a vase, which she filled with water to put the lilacs in, and sat down to await the nurse's coming. She had not long to wait. The nurse, entering, closed the door behind her as softly as Ernestine had done, and motioned Mrs. Burton to follow her into the little kitchen.

"There is not the slightest hope," said she, in answer to Mrs. Burton's anxious inquiry. "The doctor says it may be a matter of hours only, although she may live for some days yet. It is neuralgia of the heart and she has been suffering exceedingly. However, she is resting easier now--which is not a good sign, you know--and wants to see you. She has asked me to send her daughter on some little errand, because she wants to see you alone."

They entered Mrs. Alroy's room together, and Ernestine, at a sign from the nurse, followed her out of the room. Mrs. Alroy took Mrs. Burton's outstretched hand, and for a moment neither spoke. Then the former said quietly:

"Please sit down, Mrs. Burton, for I have much to say to you. And I cannot speak long at a time, so you will have to be patient with me. You are not in a hurry?"

"My dear Mrs. Alroy, I have the day at your disposal. Do not hesitate to command me."

"You know something of my past life--so I found out yesterday. I need not touch upon it further. It is past now and I no longer regret it. But it is of the future I wish to speak. Not my own--that lies beyond our knowing--but of my daughter's--"

The sick woman put her hand over her eyes a moment, and Mrs. Burton walked to the window to fight back the tears which were fast rising to her eyes. Mrs. Alroy was the first to regain control of herself, and as Mrs. Burton resumed her seat, she went on:

"I had a long talk with Mr. Allen yesterday. He knows my family and I have placed my affairs in his hands. I have no doubt that Ernestine will be taken care of, but it is of her immediate future that I wish to speak. I would not have her go among strangers at once, and I am about to ask a great favor of you. The child loves you next to myself; your daughter is her dearest friend--"

"Winnifred feels it an honor to be thought so. Nothing would please both of us, all of us, better than to have Ernestine make her home with us for as long a time as she may desire."

"You give me courage to die. You could almost give me courage to live--but not quite. Yes, that is what I wish to ask of you, but only for the remainder of the school year. Preparing for the high-school examination will occupy my little girl's mind and help her to bear the separation, and after that--in the shadow of death pride vanishes, and I have requested Mr. Allen to write to my brother. They will settle everything else." She sank back on her pillows and closed her eyes wearily.

Mrs. Burton could not immediately command her voice, but laid her hand gently on that of the sick woman. The latter, without opening her eyes, continued:

"I shall not last long; this pain has too constantly been hovering about my heart; it cannot be driven back again; it must soon strike its last blow. But I do not fear it; it will be sharp but quick. Nor do I wish to live. Even my little daughter's wonderful love for me can no longer hold me. Besides, I know that from a material point of view she will only profit by my departure. She does not know that, and I am all she has--and I have not had the courage to tell her. This hard task I must ask you to do for me. I have only a hope--to you that hope is certainty. Your views are different; you can soften the blow as I cannot do. You will stay here awhile?"

"Anything I can do for you is too little."

"I have been loquacious, but I had long restrained myself. What time is it?"

"Half past eleven."

"Ernestine will soon be here, and I will tell her to make a cup of tea for you."

"Oh, no--"

"Yes, it will give her occupation and relieve the strain. There she is now."

Ernestine came in with soft footsteps. "How do you feel now, mamma?" she asked gently.

"Quite easy, dear. I think I shall sleep for a little while. Mrs. Burton will stay to lunch, and you may make a cup of tea for her and yourself. The nurse will stay with me now; you can call her."

The nurse came, and Mrs. Burton and Ernestine left the room together.

After the sad little lunch Mrs. Burton, summoning up all her courage, spoke.

"Ernestine," she said, "your mother has asked me to tell you something which she would gladly spare you knowledge of, but which you must know. She is going on a long journey, from which she can no more return to you. But you will one day go to her."

Ernestine's great eyes dilated wildly. "You mean that my mother is going--"

"My dear, my dear! Your mother walks in the valley of the shadow of death, yet she fears no evil. You--and I and all who love you and her--are enveloped in its gloom, but if she fears not passing to the Unknown, shall we fear for her or for ourselves?"

"I cannot do without my mother, Mrs. Burton! I cannot! I cannot! She is all I have--all I want!" and the girl burst into a tempest of tears.

Mrs. Burton gathered her up in her arms and let her weep undisturbed for some minutes. Then she said gently:

"Your mother wants to go. If she could live longer, she would seldom be free from pain. Besides, it is God's will."

"Oh, my mother! my mother!" And Ernestine dropped upon her knees.

Mrs. Burton went out and left her, knowing that the stricken child's hope was in a Comforter greater than herself.

When Ernestine went in later, pale but quiet, her mother turned toward her with a smile.

"Kiss me, my daughter, my baby!" she said, "and be at peace, as I am."

The windows of the little bedroom faced the west, and toward evening Mrs. Alroy asked the nurse to draw back the curtains. "It has been a stormy day," she said, "but the sun is setting clear. I think I will go to sleep."

And she closed her tired eyes, and "fell on sleep" without being touched by the dreaded pain.

When they knew that it was indeed all over, they led Ernestine away, and she allowed them to put on her hat and went submissively home with Mrs. Burton.

When she returned to her own home again, the little room had been transformed into a bower of flowers, and Mrs. Alroy slept under their fragrant covering, beautiful and serene, with a smile on her lips. Ernestine was met on the threshold by a tall, handsome man, who put his arms about her and said how glad he was to see his little niece. He had come at once in response to Mr. Allen's telegram.

All was quiet and beautiful. A dozen or so friends gathered to listen to the sweet words of farewell to the dead and of benediction to the living; and then Mr. Van Orten took his sister home with him, that she might lie beside her kindred in the little old village on the banks of the Hudson.